in the dark
by ShadowsOnTheMoon
Summary: This constant struggle, trying to stay one step ahead of the being that possessed him, was wearing him down. [dark!stiles.]


**Like many others I'm loving the dark!stiles storyline this season, and after watching 3x18 I was inspired to write this. Spoilers up until then. This is a completed one-shot and will not be continued. The lyrics at the start/end are from the song Monster by Skillet, which I felt was appropriate. Enjoy, and if you do, please review (and maybe check out my other TW story?). Thanks!**

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_it's hiding in the dark_

_its teeth are razor sharp_

_there's no escape for me_

_it wants my soul_

_it wants my heart _

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_"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it."_

_A name. A soul. An identity._

Those had been Stiles' kneejerk reactions, his first thoughts upon hearing the riddle proposed to him by the nightmarish creature that inhabited his subconscious – and, increasingly, his waking hours as well. But it was two weeks later, two weeks after he'd been hauled out of the cave and told he had dementia and cried himself to sleep when he thought nobody was watching. The creature had taken control for just a few minutes before Stiles himself had struggled back to consciousness, but he didn't know what damage had been done in his absence.

What he knew now, however, was that all of those things – his name, his soul, his identity – could be taken from him. He knew this because one by one they had been ripped away from him, leaving him a lifeless shell, a murky-lake reflection of the person he used to be. He was nothing now, no one, and the saddest part was that his friends had no idea.

Scott had been by his side ever since the hospital, assuring him that he would do anything he could to make things better, but Stiles knew with perfect and paralysing clarity that there was nothing he could do, Alpha or not. There was nothing any of his friends could do: not Allison with her hunter's wit and weapons; not Lydia with her banshee powers; not Isaac with his pragmatic optimism.

This was Stiles' fight, and he was losing.

In light of his recent diagnosis, his father had been tactfully overlooking the fact that Stiles was skipping school, that most days he wouldn't even leave his bed. At night Stiles would handcuff himself to the bedhead, so scared of waking up in a strange place with nothing but demons for company that he would rather risk breaking bones and cutting skin. Several times a night he would wake up, thrashing wildly, the skin on his wrists torn open by the edge of the handcuffs, and he would stare into the darkness for as long as it took for the pain to subside enough to allow him to sink back into sleep.

He wanted to tell his friends, and sometimes he even deluded himself into thinking he could do it. He had tried to tell Scott, after all, when he'd first found that mysterious – and still missing – key, when he'd figured out who left the note on the board to kill Kira, when he'd started to feel a faint stirring of something inside him, so dark that he shrank away from it in all but his darkest times, when fear would creep up on him at night and he would be too tired to keep it at bay.

He was tired all the time now.

This constant struggle, trying to stay one step ahead of the being that possessed him, was wearing him down. He'd lost weight, was losing sleep every night, couldn't look anyone in the eyes for fear that they'd see what he'd become, what he was destined to be. What he couldn't stop himself from seeing every time he looked in the mirror.

He was a monster. There was no way around it, no use sugar-coating it. He wasn't Stiles anymore; he wasn't anyone. He was just a vessel, just a shell for the dark spirit to crawl into and rot from the inside out. Just a host for a parasite that was going to kill him.

Gradually the spirit took control more often. It left him to the mundane tasks, such as eating (which he forced himself to do at least every couple of days, though his hunger was quickly diminishing) and talking to his father (which he avoided doing as much as possible, and always kept his eyes averted when he needed to); but it would take over long enough to force him – no, his body – to carry out its wishes. Stiles didn't pay attention to what it did, the supplies it gathered or the places it went or the things it said, because he was just so tired.

Two weeks, and everything had changed. Stiles was no longer himself, even when the spirit wasn't actively taking control. There was nothing left of him, nothing to be saved, and he just wanted it to be over. Above all, he wanted to be free. In the beginning he had deluded himself into thinking that meant ejecting the demon from his body, regaining control, taking his life back. He was no so naïve now, but still he longed for release.

It was almost dark when Stiles was roused by a knock at the door. He lifted his head, but he didn't respond. There was a pause, and then the door opened. Seeing who it was, Stiles allowed himself to collapse back against his bed, staring at a stain on the wall.

"Hey," Scott said, leading the way inside. Behind him were Lydia, Allison, and Isaac. The cavalry was here, and they couldn't do a damn thing to help.

"We thought you might want some company," Allison said nervously. He could hear her feet shuffling on the carpet, as if she was unsure of herself, as if she didn't want to be here.

"If I wanted company, I'd have gone to school," Stiles said, his voice so quiet he was surprised the others heard it.

"We haven't seen you in a while." Isaac sounded even less sure than Allison.

"I haven't wanted to be seen." A few beats of silence passed. Stiles wearily propped himself up, looking at his four closest friends, who had never been so far away. "Look, I appreciate the house call, but there's nothing you can do."

His words had the desired effect: frowns appeared, faces paled. Scott in particular looked pained, but Stiles could hardly even spare him a thought. All his thoughts these days were devoted to keeping the monster at bay, and the further away he let himself slip, the less likely it was to go after his friends. He was keeping them at arm's length, away from the claws of the beast inside him.

"Well." Scott sat down on the end of the bed, looked at his hands for a second, and then back up at Stiles. "Let's just hang out for a while. Like we used to."

Before Stiles could object, the others were settling themselves around the room – Allison leaning against the desk, Isaac in the chair, Lydia on the other side of the bed. With a resigned sigh, Stiles flopped back against the pillow, closing his eyes and hoping that they'd be gone by the time he opened them again.

They weren't. They were still trying to help, and it would probably get them killed.

For the next two hours the four of them took turns initiating activities ranging from watching a movie to playing cards to telling jokes, and inevitably falling into disappointed silence when they failed to cheer him up at all. Eventually all but Scott left, and even then he seemed reluctant to be there, like he was only here because it was his duty – as his friend, as the alpha.

"You know you can talk to me," Scott said.

Stiles didn't react, didn't know how to react.

"I know things suck right now, but they're going to get better," Scott went on, his voice growing stronger as he did so. "We'll_ make _them better."

"There's nothing you can do," Stiles said tiredly, causing Scott to jerk his head up in alarm. Stiles knew what he looked like; he looked awful, and his words were hardly inspiring confidence. He just didn't have the energy to keep up the charade anymore.

"Stiles -"

"Get out."

"What?"

Stiles sat up straighter, looking at his friend – not quite in the eye, because he was scared of what he'd see, what would be seen in his, but close. "You heard me. I said get out."

"Stiles," Scott said again, startled, "what are you -"

For the first time that day, Stiles got to his feet. He was shaky, weak, unsteady on his feet, but the effort seemed enough to convince Scott he was serious. Scott stood up too, a concerned frown splashed across his face.

Wordlessly Stiles ushered Scott toward the door. He could feel the spirit already taking control. He couldn't risk it, couldn't stop it. He needed to be alone.

"Stiles, please, just let me help -" Scott pleaded in the doorway.

"Get out of here," Stiles said again, nudging him out with the door. "If you don't leave right now, I'll kill you."

The shock was enough to make Scott step back, and Stiles slammed the door in his face. There was silence for a minute or so, and then the sound of footsteps, of his friend finally retreating. Stiles leaned against the door, a relieved sigh escaping his lips.

This was his battle, and he was not going to let anyone else be present for his defeat.

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_no one can hear me scream_

_maybe it's just a dream_

_or maybe it's inside of me _

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End file.
